Sachi
April 12, 1944
Sachi couldn’t wait to understand how they had remained separated from Papa all this time. Maybe if she understood, she would finally believe it was all real, not a dream.
Seated at the table across from Papa, she glanced at the clock on the wall. One o’clock. It had been just after lunch when he stepped off the bus from Jerome. She watched him stare out the window.
The look in his eyes made him seem very far away as he spoke. “The night they took me away from the hospital, it’s all very hazy, like a dream.”
Mama wiped her eyes. “You were in a coma, Michio-san.”
“Yes, but still, I could hear voices. From what I could gather, the men talking were with the FBI. They were whispering and I assumed it must be late in the night. When someone strapped me to a gurney, I wondered where they were taking me.”
Sachi tried to make sense of facts that were laced between the words and tears of her parents’ conversation.
Papa continued. “The next thing I knew, I woke up in an infirmary at the camp in Santa Fe, and they were calling me Ihara. I was still confused, didn’t know what was going on, but I knew my name was not Ihara. I kept trying to tell them my name was Michio Kimura.”
Mama gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “They called you Ihara? That was the name of the man in the bed next to you at the hospital.” She shook her head as she continued. “When we received the telegram that you had … died … it must have been Ihara that died.”
Ihara died and they thought he was Papa? How could that happen? Sachi felt relief and gratitude about the terrible mistake, but at the same time, she couldn’t help feeling sad for the family who must still be wondering about their father. How were they going to feel when they found out he would never be coming home?
“Oh, dear,” Papa said, hanging his head in his hands. “All this time you thought I was dead. All because of a paperwork error?”
Mama’s eyes filled with tears. “And they couldn’t bother to send us another telegram to let us know they’d made a mistake.”
Papa turned away, and Sachi caught him wiping his eyes. “I later learned the Santa Fe camp was where they sent leaders in the Japanese community, because they thought we were alien enemies. I was in that make-shift hospital for months, drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctor told me I probably would not walk again. But a kind nurse worked with me every day. When I began to feel stronger, I was released into one of the barracks.”
Sachi tried to hold back more tears as she listened. Strange, that a part of her was so angry she wanted to scold him for not trying harder to find them. Yet, another part of her wanted to protect him.
It wasn’t his fault.
But why? Why couldn’t he find them after all that time?
“We had a funeral for you, Papa. I remember staring at the picture of you that Mama placed at the altar. I wished that picture would come alive, and when it didn’t, I wished I could wake from the terrible dream. Why didn’t you write to us, try to find us?”
For a split second, anger flashed in his eyes. “I did try. You don’t think—” He took a long, deep breath, then continued. “As I recovered in the hospital, I heard bits and pieces of information about what was happening on the outside—that Japanese families were beginning to be relocated to assembly centers and internment camps. First, I tried to write to you at home, but my letters were returned. Next, I learned that families from Berkeley and the Bay Area had been sent to an assembly center at the Tanforan Racetrack. I wrote to you there, shuddering at the thought of you living in horse stalls. Months later, those letters were also returned.”
Mama shook her head, then stopped, her eyes widening. “When our bus arrived at Tanforan, we stopped only briefly. Our driver got off the bus, but told us to stay in our seats. We watched him talking to a uniformed man. Whatever that man said, it upset our driver. He was arguing and waving his hands in the air. He returned to the bus, then slammed the door. It frightened us. We did not know what was going on. All he would tell us was that we were going on to Santa Anita. They never told us why.”
Papa glared at his clenched hand, slowly pounding the table. “I told the authorities I could not find you—that all of my letters had been returned. They never bothered to explain that some families had been sent to Santa Anita instead. How difficult could it have been to find that information? Did they not keep records?”
Wiping tears from her eyes, Mama replied, “How difficult would it have been to send us another telegram? They simply did not care. All those years apart because of paperwork errors.” She was quiet for a moment. “Why did you not try to find us in the other camps?”
“Sumiko, I did try. You must remember that for most of the last two years, I was in a Justice Department camp—maximum security. It was very difficult to get information about anything.” His eyes watered as he smiled at Mama. “But it is all in the past. There is nothing more to be done about it. We are together, and soon, Nobu and Taro will be with us, too. It is all that matters now.”
The rough, dry hands he placed over Mama’s reminded Sachi of the cracked leather of the big chair where Papa used to read to her. It seemed like only yesterday, yet it seemed a thousand years ago. All that time missed. And why? Because some army man decided their bus should go on to another camp? Or because lazy people sitting behind desks couldn’t take the time to give Papa the information he needed? Such fleeting decisions had changed lives forever.
She remembered sitting on Papa’s lap in that old leather chair. Listening to his voice rumble in his chest as he read each word. The scent of incense in his clothes.
Of course, it was wonderful—magical—that Papa had returned. But she could never return to those times. Everything was different. She had been nine years old then. Now, she was almost twelve.
And Papa was so different now. His hair, gray above his ears. He had scars below his eye, above his lip. And he walked with a limp. Would it—could it—ever be the same again?
He caught her staring, and she turned away, afraid he would read her mind and be hurt by her thoughts. But when he smiled at her, deep lines in his face crinkled and in the darkness of his eyes, she again saw the twinkle she had loved years ago.